Palazzo Rosso
After midnight
The Palazzo had gone quiet, but Esmé couldn't sleep.
The fire in her chamber had long faded to embers. Moonlight spilled in silver through the high-arched window, and outside, Florence lay still beneath a veil of silence.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts heavier than armor.
The words etched into the ruins still haunted her:
The third voice shall silence the rose.
But what haunted her more was not the prophecy, not even Thorne's escape—but the man who had stood beside her through it all. Who fought, bled, and disappeared into shadows she still barely understood.
Luca.
She realized she had been pushing the questions aside for weeks. Ever since she'd learned what he truly was.
No—what he wasn't.
No heartbeat. No aging. No memory that faded. He had called himself a vampire once, in passing, as if it were just another title, like Scholar or Warden.
But what did it mean?
Who had he been before her?
What had he lost to live this long?
She stood and slipped into her cloak.
She didn't want to wait any longer.
She found him where she always did when the night grew restless—the solarium.
It was a vast, windowed hall beneath the roof, filled with old glass, ivy climbing in through cracked panes. The stars overhead blinked cold and far, but here, the air was warmer. Softer. Like the world had paused to listen.
Luca stood at the far end, leaning against a column, his coat draped over a nearby chair. His dark hair was tousled, eyes half-shadowed as he stared into nothing.
He didn't turn when she entered.
"You should be resting," he said quietly.
"I couldn't sleep."
A beat of silence.
Then: "Neither could I."
She stepped closer.
When he finally looked at her, she saw more than fatigue.
She saw weight.
Memories. Centuries of them.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He nodded. Slowly.
"I've been fighting beside you for months now," she said. "I've trusted you with my life. And still, I don't know what you are. Not really."
His jaw tensed, but he didn't look away.
"You know what they call me."
"Vampire," she said. "But that's just a word. A story. I want to know the truth."
He studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly, "What do you want to know?"
She sat beside him on the old bench, close enough to feel the chill he carried, but not touching.
"Do you remember how you became… this?"
A long breath. "Yes."
"Tell me."
He didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was low. Measured.
"I was twenty-three. The son of a scribe in Siena. My name wasn't Luca then. It was Alaric."
Esmé blinked. "You changed it?"
"I buried it," he said softly. "That man died a long time ago."
She waited.
"I was taken during the Night of Blood—when the Faith first began its experiments with the Veil. I was meant to die. But I didn't. I… changed."
"Changed how?"
"They bound a piece of the Veil to me. Not fully. Not like what Valtheran tried later. But enough that I stopped aging. Stopped… needing certain things. I became something between human and echo."
She looked at him. "So you're not really a vampire?"
He gave a faint, wry smile. "If the word helps you understand, use it. But I don't drink blood to survive. I don't fear sunlight. I just… remember."
Esmé tilted her head. "Remember what?"
"Everything."
His voice cracked.
"I remember every face I couldn't save. Every name I tried to forget. Every mistake. Every betrayal. Every person I ever loved—and buried."
He turned to her, eyes dark but open.
"You asked what I am. I'm what's left after too much time and too many ghosts."
She didn't flinch.
She reached out, her hand brushing his.
He didn't move away.
"I don't care what word fits you," she whispered. "I care what you choose to be now."
"I don't know if I get to choose."
"You do," she said firmly. "You already have. You chose to stay. You chose to protect me."
He closed his eyes, as if the weight of her trust was more than he knew how to hold.
She leaned closer.
"You've seen the world fall apart more times than I can imagine. And you still stood beside me."
"I couldn't do anything else."
She took his hand fully now.
"Why?"
He opened his eyes.
And for once, he didn't look away.
"Because you remind me what it means to feel alive."
Silence stretched between them again.
Not uncomfortable.
Just fragile.
Like a bridge being built between two cliffs that had never dared cross the space between.
Then he added, quietly, "You make me wish I had more time."
She frowned. "More?"
"I don't know what happens to me, Esmé. I don't know if I'll fade. Or break. Or… unravel. But you make me want to find out."
She shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I don't care how long I have," she whispered. "I just care that I get to spend it with you."
————————————————————
Later, as the stars began to fade and the city slowly woke below them, they still sat in silence.
But their hands were clasped now.
Their breaths steady.
And for the first time since the Veil had entered her life, Esmé didn't feel alone in the dark.
She felt anchored.
Not by fate.
Not by power.
But by the boy who used to be a scribe's son.
And the man he had chosen to become.